


One Year and a Bottle of Whiskey

by CryptidBane (Impetus)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Basically married, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, professors au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impetus/pseuds/CryptidBane
Summary: Alec knows Magnus’ office hours better than Magnus knows them, and Magnus loves when Alec snores.





	One Year and a Bottle of Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexanderfightwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderfightwood/gifts).



> Thank you to the wonderful la_muerta for beta-ing! And a huge shout out to the many invaluable friends who put up with me and also helped lead me through the very complicated world of academia. (Which I still don’t get tbh)  
> Happy Holidays!

This winter is colder than the last. Alec shuffles past his office, snow melting off of his shoes, and halts in front of office number 218. He eases the door open to the familiar sight of Magnus, who is sleeping face-first in a book, as usual. A shuddering breath rustles the pages. Alec walks into Magnus’ office, and closes the door with a soft _click_.

The room is dark, lit by a pair of scented candles burning hazardously close to the precarious stack of papers at Magnus’ elbow. Muscle memory leads Alec through the dim room, the sight of Magnus drawing him in with every breath.

Alec sets his bag down on the jade green armchair, his favorite, and sheds his jacket. After a moment of consideration, Alec lays the still-warm coat over Magnus’ shoulders. Magnus snuffles. Alec freezes, waiting for a moment before he starts tidying Magnus’ office, careful to keep the volume down.

First are the books. Alec works his way through them, shelving them in alphabetical order with a practiced hand. Magnus has a habit of buying new books, spanning every field of academia, and then forgetting to put them away once they’ve been wrung dry of information.

Everything smells like ink and paper and teakwood. Alec has an ongoing system in which he takes the dustiest volumes to the library and donates them once the shelf hits capacity. Magnus’ habits used to drive Alec mad, but now, cleaning up after Magnus gives him a sense of calm. He cycles through the usual: organizing pens, straightening piles of paper, folding the errant piece of clothing Magnus forgot.

There’s a knock on the door. Magnus jerks awake, makeup smearing across his cheek as he rubs his eyes.

“Alexander?” He yawns, stretching, joints popping back into place.

“Hey,” Alec murmurs. He keeps his voice low, calming, walking over to run his thumb along the smudged eyeliner, in a vain effort to wipe it away. Magnus blinks up at him, eyes bleary. Alec averts his gaze. He can feel the blush creeping up the back of his neck. “I’ll get the door,” Alec says. “You go back to sleep.”

There’s a series of quieter, but still insistent, knocking. Magnus nods and Alec walks to the entrance, opening the door just a crack before stepping out into the corridor.

The history department is a maze of ugly brown walls and uglier brown carpet. Fluorescent lights flicker every now and then, the heater booming in earnest behind uninsulated walls as it wards off the chill from the blizzard blustering outside. A bespectacled student, bundled under at least three layers of clothes, gives Alec an awkward wave. He looks ill.

“Can I help you?” Alec asks.

“I’m actually here for Ma—Professor Bane. Is he around?” The boy peeks around Alec, eyeing the placard before turning back with a sheepish grin.

“His office hours are on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today is Friday,” Alec replies, deadpan. “Is it urgent?”

The student sneezes and rubs his nose. Alec watches with disgust as he wipes his hand on his pants, unperturbed, and looks back up at Alec with a sniff. “It’s for my thesis, actually.”

“Oh,” Alec says. That’s important, but Magnus is sleeping, and Alec heard Magnus bustling around their apartment at four in the morning. The last thing he wants to do is wake Magnus. He sighs, resigning himself to the sound of sniffling and loose mucus for the next hour or so. “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

The student shoots him an odd, evaluating, look. “Are you Alexander?”

Alec scowls. “I’m Dr. Lightwood,” he says.

“Oh, Magnus lets me call him Magnus when it’s just us, and he always calls you Alexander. I’m Simon, Simon Lewis. Two first names,” Simon says with another wet sneeze. Alec takes a step back. “So...you’re Dr. Lightwood,” Simon continues, eyes roving over Alec’s face. “Wow, I can totally see it. Has anyone ever told you that you look like an angry puppy?”

“Do you want help or not?” Alec snaps.

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot,” Simon replies, laughing as he swings his backpack around to his front. The strap gets caught in the armpit of his sleeve, prompting Simon to give an awkward chuckle, before he manages to open it. He pulls out an academic journal with Magnus’ name included in the publisher’s list. “Is he like, drunk or something?” The suggestion isn’t ludicrous, Alec admits. But the idea that a student is so familiar with Magnus has Alec a bit on edge.

Magnus loves to drink. He has a drink cart that they keep in the living room, a ridiculous golden thing, brimming with bottles of all shapes and sizes. Magnus insists that it’s antique and deserving of all the attention he gives it. Alec finds it worthy by merit of how happy it makes Magnus to trot it around, though he still thinks it’s a bit gaudy.

Drinking habits aside, Magnus is Simon’s professor, and Simon still rubs Alec every wrong way possible. Simon should think Magnus eats, breathes, and shits academia. In Alec’s opinion anyway.

“He’s not drunk, but he is asleep,” Alec says, taking the book from Simon’s hands. He turns it over and stares down at Simon with disdain. “And it might be in your best interest to show the faculty more respect, Mr. Lewis.”

Simon stiffens, hand flying to the back of his neck, bag strap wedging further into his arm. “Sorry, Mr. Lightwood.”

“Dr. Lightwood,” Alec corrects.

“Right,” Simon says, wearing both chastisement and exasperation in a way Alec doesn’t understand or like. “Dr. Lightwood.”

Alec nods and scans the book cover. Magnus published this a little over two years ago, Alec helped him edit, bringing Magnus countless cups of tea in the dead of night. That was the first time Alec recognized his love for what it is. But that’s beside the point.

“I’m familiar with this topic. Let me get some things from the office and we can find an empty classroom,” Alec says. He checks his watch. “There shouldn’t be any classes in room 302.”

Simon shuffles, passing weight between his feet as he sneezes. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Alec minds. Alec minds plenty, but Magnus hasn’t been getting enough sleep, and Alec cares about Magnus more than he cares about the bacon cheeseburger that’s waiting for him two blocks down the street. His stomach growls, and Alec ignores it.

“Head up there, Lewis. I’ll meet you.” Simon nods, zipping up his pack before heading toward the stairs.

Alec gathers a few books, his laptop, and grabs a granola bar. He blows out the candles and checks the thermostat to make sure it’s set to a comfortable temperature, fiddling with the controls until it clicks. This prompts a new wave of rumbling from the heater. If Alec presses a quick kiss to the top of Magnus’ head before leaving, well, there’s no one around to see.

***

Magnus wakes to Alec rubbing his shoulder. The corner lamp is on, its inoffensive glow easing his vision back into color without blinding him. There’s a warmth that roots itself deep in Magnus’ chest, infinite, ingraining itself further with every breath.

“Hey,” Alec whispers, hand traveling up Magnus’ neck to run through his hair. Everything smells like Alec.

“Who was that at the door?” Magnus asks. He leans into Alec’s touch, taking in the heat and the feel of nails dragging along his skin, gentle.

“Some kid named Lewis,” Alec replies. Magnus gasps, sitting up and pulling away. Alec’s hand slips down the back of his neck to rest on his shoulders.

“Simon Lewis? Fuck, I forgot I was supposed to meet with him today,” he groans.

“Don’t worry. I helped him,” Alec says, rubbing a comforting hand over Magnus’ back. “He said he’d come back on Monday to go over it again with you.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Alexander,” Magnus murmurs.

Alec laughs, a full-bodied rumble that sends vibrations into Magnus bones. He begins collecting their belongings. “Let’s get you home. I’ll make us something to eat and then you can get your head back on straight.”

“Never straight, darling,” Magnus teases. Alec nods once in acquiescence, herding Magnus up and out of the chair, bundling them both from head to toe with heinous plaid scarves and other fashion-ignorant items. Magnus accepts them all without complaint.

The walk to the station is quiet for a night in Manhattan. Blistering wind howls around them, vicious, poking and prodding at every seam in an effort to nip at their skin. They walk arm in arm, the line of Alec’s body pressing against Magnus.

Magnus soaks in the heady sensation of knowing that Alec is so close to him, familiar with him, and yet out of reach. Catarina calls him a _masochist_. He can’t refute it, so he ignores it instead. They descend into the train station to the cacophony of screeching metal and foot-traffic.

***

Spring greets Magnus with a series of obnoxious honking and the sound of birds. He blinks awake, listening to the soft fluttering of wings before rolling out of bed and dragging himself into the living room.

There’s a peaceful loneliness in these mornings. Magnus revels in the rare occasion where Alec is still asleep, recovering from long hours of poring over books, his snores audible from behind the blue bedroom door. Their two cats, Chairman Meow and Church, sun on the hardwood floor.

Plodding along in his fuzzy white slippers, Magnus moves into the kitchen. He pokes through the refrigerator and a cabinet for coffee, bacon, and some eggs. Store-bought sourdough goes into the toaster. He lets the grounds steep in the french press, laying the strips of fatty pork to sizzle in the pan.

There’s a tiny radio on the windowsill over the sink. It’s pale pink, spotted with flecks of white paint from when teenage Magnus had a breakdown and decided to rid his room of all color, with speakers that protest when you turn them up too loud. Magnus flips it on. It crackles as it starts up, the familiar sound of static leading into the chorus of a slow pop song. He sways his hips, humming with the music as he flips the bacon, then removes it, setting it aside on some paper towels.

The coffee is ready. Magnus pushes the plunger down to strain the hot water, and pours the steaming liquid into two matching cups. There’s hazelnut creamer in the fridge. Magnus pours until Alec’s mug is blonde and sweet, leaving his untouched, black.

He grabs the spatula, collecting eggs on two plates shaped like plump cats. They even have matching cutlery: knives, forks, and spoons in the shape of wide-eyed fish. Magnus grabs a paper towel and wraps a set of utensils inside it. A _ding_ cuts through the soft crooning of the radio. Magnus takes the slices of bread and scrapes a healthy serving of butter across them both. A pinch of salt and a satisfying crack of black pepper onto the eggs later, and Magnus heads toward Alec’s room, plate and mug in hand.

He can’t hear any snoring.

Magnus opens the door with his elbow. The morning light from the hallway pours into the dark bedroom, soaking the floor as he walks inside, the cats following in Magnus’ footsteps.

Alec watches him from the bed, sitting up as Magnus approaches. “How did you know I was awake?” Alec asks, a slow grin spreading across his face, hair sticking every which way. Chairman Meow and Church both make themselves comfortable near Alec’s feet. Magnus sits on the edge of the bed, a creaky ancient thing that has more springs than it does cushioning. The cats like it just fine. Alec does too.

“I couldn’t hear your snoring anymore,” Magnus replies. He hands Alec the mug, accepting the scowl Alec levels at him with grace and a tilt of the head. “Don’t give me that look. I like it.”

 Alec takes a sip of his coffee. He raises a brow at Magnus over the rim of the cup, unimpressed. “You like my snoring?” Magnus nods and smiles, admiring the way that the morning sun valiantly peeks through a slit in Alec’s blackout curtains, a streak of golden light running across Alec’s plain grey duvet.

“Yeah,” Magnus murmurs. “Of course I do.” Alec lets out an odd, loud, snort, before taking another drink of his sugar-laden coffee. “Just eat your breakfast,” Magnus says, setting the warm plate onto Alec’s lap. Alec inhales the food with gusto and a severe lack of manners.

A piece of egg sticks to the corner of Alec’s mouth, a tiny island of white and yellow, clinging at the shores of a vast sea of stubble. Magnus watches as Alec’s tongue finds and retrieves it.

“It’s good. Now, go get your food and bring it here before it gets cold,” Alec says, chewing as he speaks. “I’m sure that cold black coffee is worse than warm black coffee, somehow.”

Magnus rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. “Yes, yes, whatever you say, darling.”

*** 

Summer tastes like the in-season fish Alec eats with a side of vegetables.

“Are you bringing anyone with you on our cabin trip this year?” Maryse asks, smiling at Alec before taking a drink from her glass of red wine. Luke shifts at her side and shoots Alec an apologetic grimace around a mouthful of steak.

The restaurant provides them a certain modicum of privacy, each table standing far from the next, waitstaff trained to approach at the right moment. Max drops his spoon, and another appears by his elbow as if by magic. Alec can appreciate the efficiency, but right now, he’d give anything for a convenient interruption. Maryse waits, expectant. No such luck.

Izzy glances up at Alec from her spot at the table, between Jace and their mother, giving him her sympathies before returning to her pasta. Her food smells divine, Jace’s does too, but Alec recently went to the doctor, and Magnus will get on his case if he doesn’t follow the doctor’s instructions to watch his high blood-pressure.

Alec turns to his own plate, picking at the fish with a gilded fork. “I hadn’t planned to,” he replies. His fingers tap against his thigh beneath the royal blue tablecloth.

“What happened with that man? Derek, was it?” Maryse wonders, patting Luke’s arm with her hand.

“Yeah, what happened with Derek?” Luke asks, half knowing, half curious.

“Nothing,” Alec mutters. “Nothing happened with Derek.”

“He broke up with Derek a few days ago,” Izzy supplies. She ignores Alec’s glare with practiced ease.

Maryse deflates in her chair. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” She takes a breath and gives Alec a bright, if awkward, smile. “Well, no need to worry about that then. How are your students do—.”

“Why don’t you just bring Magnus?” Jace cuts in, stabbing into his mound of au gratin potatoes. “Derek was the worst. He wouldn’t get a joke if it dropped to its knees and sucked him off.”

“Jace,” Maryse admonishes. “Don’t use that language, especially around Max.”

“It’s true though,” Max chimes in. “I ran into them at a coffee shop and confirmed, Derek was about as dry as the plain toast he ordered _at a coffee shop._ Who orders plain toast at a coffee shop?”

“Max,” Luke says, a bit of warning in his tone. Max shrugs, unrepentant, and scoops up a delicious-smelling ravioli in his new spoon.

Alec’s mouth waters. He takes another bite of his fish. It’s good, fresh and light, but it isn’t ravioli. He really fucking wants ravioli.

“I’m serious though. You and Magnus are married, you just don’t have the rings. Derek wouldn’t have lasted even if he wasn’t the worst,” Jace says. Maryse clears her throat, and the topic drops alongside the dessert menu that finds its way next to the floral centerpiece.

Alec continues to eat, ignoring the soft looks of concern that wash over him from time to time.

***

“I can’t believe you nerds are athletic. This isn’t fair,” Jace grouses, panting as they forge ahead of him on the mountain trail.

Magnus looks good in hiking gear, even if he complains about sweat trickling down his neck and back. “I’m not one to complain about a little sweat,” he says with a wink. “But this is ridiculous.” He turns away, looking out over the lake with sun kissing his skin, a leaf stuck in his hair.

“Why don’t you help him, Alec? Help your sweaty man get clean,” Jace jokes. “Or you can both just get sweatier. Whatever you’re into.” He grins, pleased with himself.

“That’s disgusting, Jace,” Alec replies with a wrinkle of his nose. He imagines licking Magnus’ warm skin, tongue dipping into the curves of shoulders and collarbones. And Alec wonders how Magnus would react if Alec said that he is in fact, into that. 

*** 

Fall sweeps in with golden leaves and laughter that echoes off of Ragnor’s fancy brownstone walls.

It is at a monthly get-together that Catarina corners Magnus, pinning him with her patented look of disappointment as he tells her, for the last time, that he is not _pining_ for Alexander. He settles further into the couch he’s sitting on, a floral antique that’s been through too much wear for its delicate frame.

Ragnor snorts into his drink, and Raphael goes to open another bottle of wine. “You went on a date the other night, didn’t you? How did that go?” Ragnor asks, brows raised as he stares at Magnus from over the rim of his glass.

“It went just fine,” Magnus replies. “She was lovely, but I don’t think it’ll work out.”

“That _is_ a strange way to say that she isn’t Alexander Lightwood,” Ragnor says with a pointed wave of the hand. “My dearest Catarina, would you say that perhaps young Magnus here is in love?”

Catarina shifts in her chair, a bright green throw blanket draped over her lap, swinging her legs beneath her. Her eyes twinkle with mirth. “You know what, Ragnor? I would say so.”

“What say you, Raphael?” Ragnor calls.

Raphael walks back into the room, toting the fresh cabernet in one hand. He settles in an armchair and considers Ragnor’s question. “I say that Magnus may as well draw up a marriage certificate and give it to Alec on his birthday.”

“That is soon, isn’t it?” Catarina asks. “What _are_ you getting him for his birthday?”

“A journal,” Magnus answers with a sniff. “Not to ruin your fun.”

“A journal?” Ragnor repeats. “He must have dozens of those. Surely you, Magnus Bane, thought of something better than a journal.”

“He loves journals,” Magnus defends, taking a deep swig of wine as he parries the endless barbs from his friends. “And I’ll have you know that this particular journal is a collection of passages from his favorite historical documents.”

“Oh, did you transcribe them yourself? That _is_ horribly unromantic,” Ragnor says. Catarina laughs, and Raphael smirks, which is as good as full blown laughter from him. Magnus blushes, caught out.

“Forgive me for trying to give him something he’d like,” Magnus says. He pauses, staring up at Ragnor’s vaulted ceilings, as if the answer to his problems lays within the chandelier that glitters over them all. “We’re not all rich like you are.”

“It’s true. If I were trying to woo Alexander, I’d simply buy him an original copy of one of his favorite books,” Ragnor supposes, rolling his eyes. “And do shut up. You know it’s a family inheritance, and last I checked, you had one of your own, you prick. You just choose to share your loft and deal with miscreants for unsatisfactory pay.”

“They’re students,” Magnus reminds him. “And the wages aren’t that bad. I actually think you’d like academia if you gave it a shot. People pay you to talk, and they’ll all appreciate your newest foray into—taxidermy was it?”

Ragnor gives him a good-natured middle finger.

“But Ragnor is right about your loft,” Catarina cuts in, not unkind, leaning toward Magnus with the expression she gets when she intends to impart serious advice. “Magnus, we know you love him. You know you love him. It’s time to let him know.”

“Magnus,” Raphael murmurs, quiet and steady. “Don’t complicate this.”

“Why, Raphael,” Magnus laughs, fingers twisting around the stem of his glass. “Didn’t you know? That’s my specialty.” 

*** 

Alec’s birthday is a quiet affair, a collection of friends and family of both apartment dwellers in the comfort of their own home. 

Magnus watches, all too fond, as Raphael and Alec grouse about the modern condition of politics.

“Don’t forget to open your presents, Alec,” Max says, laughing more than speaking as he beats Luke in a game of cards. Alec obliges. Everyone gathers around the living room table, talking over each other, shoving their gifts forward.

When it comes time for Alec to open Magnus’ gift, Magnus holds his breath. Alec runs curious fingers over the cover, flipping through pages and caressing the lines of script on each. 

Ragnor sidles over to Magnus, sipping from a tumbler of brandy. 

“Dear friend, you do know that this is essentially a love letter?”

Magnus smiles and whispers back.

“Yes. I know.”

***

Winter comes in a bottle of whiskey. Magnus peers through the glass, inspecting the amber droplets that climb and fall with every turn of his hand, beading together as they race back to the bottom. It looks like there’s about a quarter of the alcohol left. What a waste, he doesn’t remember drinking that much.

The world spins as he tries to figure out how he finished it all, a menagerie of color and light and sound that all culminate in one very important thing.

Magnus is alone, ditched by his date because calling your date by the wrong name is frowned upon in modern society. Who knew?

So he laughs and sobs in equal measure, hiccuping as he tries to keep from teetering off of the couch. His drink cart is just a few feet away, the apartment lights reflecting off the placid surfaces of twenty-odd liquors. He worries, vaguely, about Alexander, who is bound to return home any minute now from dinner with his family. Magnus likes Alec’s family. Magnus loves them, even. Bile rises in the back of Magnus’ throat and all of this can wait until he gets to the bathroom.

He tries to stand. This leads to the discovery that his legs have somehow disconnected from his brain. Now he’s on the floor, prone, still nauseated and still sad. Soft fur brushes his hand, and he hears the tags of both cats jingling as they climb all over his body. The rug is so comfortable. He’s so fucking tired, he doesn’t want to move, and what the fuck was he doing again?

*** 

Magnus wakes up in his bed. His head fucking hurts, and his limbs ache. It’s dark, a low lamp casting orange light on the nightstand. Alec sits beside him, a book in hand.

“Alexander?” He mumbles, mouth dry, tongue sticking to surfaces of his mouth that somehow taste exactly like how he imagines death must taste. Alec leans over him, forcing a cup of water into his hands. Magnus takes a massive gulp. He chokes on it, coughing as water dribbles down the side of the glass and from the corners of his mouth.

“Oh my god, Magnus,” Alec murmurs, wiping Magnus’ skin dry with a hand towel, because of course Alec has a towel. “Take small sips.”

Magnus does as he’s told, nursing his drink. As he swallows, swishing the liquid around, he begins to feel a bit human again. Alec hands him a pair of painkillers. He takes them, chasing them with a gulp of water that catches on an itch, sending him into another fit of coughs.

Alec makes a noise of dismay, rubbing Magnus’ back in soothing circles, a familiar touch that reminds Magnus of why he thought it would be a brilliant idea to attempt pounding a bottle of aged whiskey.

Purpling bruises hang beneath Alec’s eyes, a pallid sheen on pale skin that tells Magnus that Alec has been keeping vigil for god knows how long.

“I’m alright, Alexander,” Magnus says. He sets a hand on Alec’s arm, pulling it down and into his lap. “Please, go to bed.” Alec stares at him, hazel eyes catching fire in the gloom.

“No, you’re not alright, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me about it,” Alec replies, gaze unyielding. “What’s going on? What the fuck were you doing, Magnus? I came home and you were passed out on the floor surrounded by broken glass and our cats, and yes, I’ve already cleaned it up. The cats are fine too,” he finishes, dismissing Magnus’ shock. “I carried you into the bathroom and I was about to call the hospital, but you woke up and emptied your stomach into the toilet. I brushed your teeth and washed you off, but…” he doesn’t finish.

“Well, I’m alright _now,_ ” Magnus says with an attempt at a smile. He stares up at the ceiling, swallowing around guilt and the rawness of his throat. “You worry too much.”

Alec’s gaze fills with rage. “Excuse me? Don’t _lie_ to me. Why are you lying to me? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

_Because I’m in love with you and I didn’t mean to drink all of that and I’m sorry and I don’t know what to do._

“Because nothing’s wrong,” Magnus says through clenched teeth.“I overestimated myself.”

“So I’m supposed to believe that you decided to drink whiskey straight from the bottle for no goddamn reason?” Alec snaps. “I’m not stupid, Magnus. Whiskey is your heartbreak drink and last I checked, you’re not fucking dating anyone.”

“Of course I’m not dating anyone,” Magnus shouts, mouth still dry, eyes finding Alec’s in the dark. “Because I love _you_. And I can’t seem to fucking get over you or go through one date without saying your name or wishing it was you there and I just wanted to _be numb_ , okay?”

An awkward hush falls over them, sudden, a silence broken only by the sound of uneven breath.

“Mag—.”

“Sorry,” Magnus mutters. His nails bite into his skin and his head hurts and god Alexander is so beautiful. He looks down. “Must be the alcohol.” His eyelids droop, the sudden burst of energy leaving him reeling as he leans back against his pillows. “I mean it, though,” he insists.

“Magnus,” Alec says, voice gentle. He cups Magnus’ chin, thumb running over the curves of Magnus’ chapped lips.

“What?” Magnus asks. He’s tired, he’s feeling the beginnings of a wicked hangover, and he loves Alec so much it _hurts._  “I know that this must be weird for you, but you have to know.”

Alec kisses Magnus’ forehead and brushes a hand against Magnus’ cheek. He starts to cry, tears sticking to lashes, streaks of water and salt. “Magnus, slow down.”

“Why are you crying?” Magnus murmurs, forehead creasing with worry. “Oh, Alexander, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Alec laughs, warm, bright through his tears. “Of course I’m crying, Magnus,” Alec whispers. “I love you.”

Magnus’ sits up and regrets it, holding his head as he tries to keep from throwing up. “Please tell me that the whiskey isn’t making me hallucinate,” he groans. “I’m pretty sure it’s already stripped my stomach lining, and to add this on top of that would just be cruel.”

“I’m serious,” Alec murmurs. “I love you. And I can’t believe that you’d rather drown your sorrows in a bottle of whiskey than talk to me about it.”

“Well, if we’re going to throw stones…” Magnus says, trailing off with a playful grin.

Alec blushes. “It was one time, and she knew it wasn’t a real date.”

Magnus looks into Alec’s face, hands finding Alec’s own beneath the blankets, fingers twining together. “And if we went on a date?”

“If we went on a date,” Alec breathes, shifting his body upward until their gazes meet, both of them leaning against the headboard. “If we went on a date,” he repeats. “That would definitely be real.”

Their first kiss tastes like toothpaste with a tiny hint of liquor. It’s not the best tasting kiss in the world; their teeth clack, and they get tangled in bedsheets—but it’s their first kiss, and Magnus thinks it suits them just fine.

*** 

There’s a knock on the office door.

“Come in,” Magnus calls.

Simon pokes his head in, grinning in the boyish way he does. “Hey, Magnus. Hey, Doctor Lightwood-Bane.”

“We’re not married yet,” Alec deadpans, unamused, glaring at Simon from where he’s organizing Magnus’ bookshelf.

Simon shrugs. “Well, I mean, you practically are. Consider it practice for the real thing.”

Alec turns to Magnus. “He can’t come to the wedding.”

“What?” Magnus gasps. His chair squeaks as he sits up straight, a pile of blue books toppling to the floor when the arm rest bumps the desk. He considers the mess, then ignores it, pouting at Alec instead. “But he’s Jace’s date.”

“Yeah, Professor Lightwood-Bane,” Simon says. “I’m Jace’s date.”

“Lewis, if you want me to write you a letter of recommendation, then I’d suggest you call me by my correct name,” Alec replies, unmoved. “Head over to my office, we can work on it there.”

Simon gives him a loose salute and backs out of the room. “Yessir.” The door shuts behind him, and Alec lets out a deep sigh.

Magnus stands, walking over to Alec, pressing a kiss to Alec’s nose and cheeks. “You like it, Doctor Lightwood-Bane,” he teases.

“I do,” Alec admits. He does and Magnus knows it, but Simon Lewis _will_ think that Alec eats, breathes, and shits academia if he has anything to say about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you’re interested in my shitposting, HMU on twitter @CryptidBane and/or using #profoommates bc tbh I think that’s hilarious and I’d love to hear if you liked it!


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